Wandering around the village and beyond over the past almost three weeks (yikes, has it already been that long?!), I've come to realize that some animals to which I've grown quite accustomed are missing. First, there was the near deafening silence that came with the lack of cicadas. Over the summer, I had grown so used to hearing their song rising and falling like waves crashing gently against a sandy beach that their absence upon my arrival was close to jarring. But as the days wore on, I noticed a distinct lack of other more furry critters as well. Namely, squirrels and rabbits. Maybe it's just because Kansas has such an abundance of them (though perhaps the new resident coyote has taken care of that to some degree) that it seems so strikingly odd to me. Or maybe it's because I can drive down a street and not worry that I'm going to hit one of the less-than-brilliant little balls of fur. Or perhaps it's because I just picture there being rabbits at the very least in Ireland. Whatever the reason, it is singularly peculiar to me that there are no squirrels here...
Tarrying for just a bit longer in the realm of things missing (yesterday's sermon was on things lost, so I suppose it's fitting), it is remarkable to me the things that cause you to miss home--not as in "homesick" but rather just a momentary pang of realizing that you are very far away from the life that you're used to and the people who truly know you. Walking through the grocery store, I needed only a few things. American and shredded cheeses were on the list. Perusing the cheese aisle, I was momentarily distressed when I couldn't find anything labeled "american cheese". I'm just so comfortable with the friendly blue wrapper of Kraft singles (no matter what your opinion of them might be) that it was disappointing to search and search and think for a moment that no such product was available. A similar story with the shredded cheese--I've just become so accustomed to walking into the diary aisle and having a million shredded options that it was startling to not see it right away. Of course, in the end I found them both. And it is, ultimately, a trivial thing. But for a minute, I just missed familiar. Sometimes, it's the little things that really matter. Sometimes, it's the little things that remind you that no matter how similar a place might be to home, it isn't in the end.
This is not to give anyone the impression that I'm not having a grand time. I am! And to prove it I have more pictures :)
Just for the record, it was a very windy day. Some of the pics are blurry because I was being buffeted so badly that I couldn't keep still. No joke. I might have been blown away.
Rainy Day + some others
Monday, 13 September 2010
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
Velvet and Republicans...
When I awoke this morning, Groomsport had been swallowed by a bank of dense fog. Running along the Donaghadee road toward the roundabout, the fields to my right and left disappeared into billowing white. And it wasn't long before, coming over the crest of a hill, the road in front of me did as well. Now don't get me wrong, I've seen fog like this before--but there was something that gave me pause at that moment. In the half-light of early morning, this road that I'd traversed many times over the past week, drifting off into an impenetrable mystery--there was something ominous about it, almost dangerous. Who could tell what the ethereal mists hid? Somehow the sight invited one to believe that perhaps, behind that curtain, the world really had changed, the road had shifted or fallen away altogether and nothing would be the same.
Of course, I kept running and the veil of silver gossamer kept drawing just beyond my reach, revealing more and more of a familiar world, unchanged, just as it had been the night before.
Jogging to the beach, the mist spit in my face leaving me dripping. At the water's edge the fog in a curtain fell and the rest of the Irish Sea might have dropped off into eternity for all I knew. Standing there it was just me and the gulls, crows and odd tern. Waves brushed the shore with gentle fingers and the birds called. It brought to mind the CBS Sunday morning nature segments that I've been seeing all of my life. The sounds especially. But the sights too. Volcanic rock pushing out of the sand like the ridged backs of dragons. Moss, seaweed and a shelly beach. Not yet awake, the village fading away into oblivious white.
Of course, none of this has to do with velvet or Republicans. Rewind to yesterday. It's my first day shadowing the pastor and one of our first tasks is to find robes from their stash that fit. Low and behold a particularly nice garment of pleated and flowing black is just my size, but as I began to button it I couldn't help but suck my teeth. See, running up the front around the neck and back down the front on the other side of the opening, there was a wide stripe of velvet. Mayday. I can't touch velvet without my teeth hurting...in fact, it hurts me just to write this. No joke. I tried to hold it in, but no luck. And I tried to say it was fine, but they didn't believe me (of course, I couldn't speak well by this point, so I guess it was obvious). And, just like my family who re-discovered this quirk of mine, the secretary and pastor thought it was hilarious--something that will be held over my head in a loving sort of way, no doubt. In any event, unlike my family, they actually thought they'd heard of it before, so they googled "phobia of velvet". Turns out there's a name for people like me: haptodysphoria. It's the extreme dislike of touching certain soft things...like velvet, raw cotton and peach fuzz (of those, peach fuzz is the only one I don't dislike). We took the robe to one of our members who is an excellent taylor. No more velvet for me! Yes. You can laugh now.
Which only leaves me with Republicans. This is another learning point for me. Because in conversation the term came up (and then came up again with the pastor) and immediately I went to American politics and just as immediately realized that that wasn't going to be right in this situation. So I asked. Quite like the name suggests, Republicans (as I understand it) are those who still wish N. Ireland to be a part of the Republic of Ireland as opposed to unionists (with a little 'u'), who prefer to stay with the United Kingdom. I'm told that, yes, there is somewhat firm correlation between the political designations and religion, but that it would not be wise to assume that all Protestants are unionists and all Catholics are Republicans, as they are not. It is an interesting cultural-political situation and one that I hope to be able to learn more about while I'm here. It's also a good reminder of the way that the meaning of words and labels change with different cultural contexts. I take it for granted and I shouldn't.
New pics: the Antrim Coast
Peace!
Of course, I kept running and the veil of silver gossamer kept drawing just beyond my reach, revealing more and more of a familiar world, unchanged, just as it had been the night before.
Jogging to the beach, the mist spit in my face leaving me dripping. At the water's edge the fog in a curtain fell and the rest of the Irish Sea might have dropped off into eternity for all I knew. Standing there it was just me and the gulls, crows and odd tern. Waves brushed the shore with gentle fingers and the birds called. It brought to mind the CBS Sunday morning nature segments that I've been seeing all of my life. The sounds especially. But the sights too. Volcanic rock pushing out of the sand like the ridged backs of dragons. Moss, seaweed and a shelly beach. Not yet awake, the village fading away into oblivious white.
Of course, none of this has to do with velvet or Republicans. Rewind to yesterday. It's my first day shadowing the pastor and one of our first tasks is to find robes from their stash that fit. Low and behold a particularly nice garment of pleated and flowing black is just my size, but as I began to button it I couldn't help but suck my teeth. See, running up the front around the neck and back down the front on the other side of the opening, there was a wide stripe of velvet. Mayday. I can't touch velvet without my teeth hurting...in fact, it hurts me just to write this. No joke. I tried to hold it in, but no luck. And I tried to say it was fine, but they didn't believe me (of course, I couldn't speak well by this point, so I guess it was obvious). And, just like my family who re-discovered this quirk of mine, the secretary and pastor thought it was hilarious--something that will be held over my head in a loving sort of way, no doubt. In any event, unlike my family, they actually thought they'd heard of it before, so they googled "phobia of velvet". Turns out there's a name for people like me: haptodysphoria. It's the extreme dislike of touching certain soft things...like velvet, raw cotton and peach fuzz (of those, peach fuzz is the only one I don't dislike). We took the robe to one of our members who is an excellent taylor. No more velvet for me! Yes. You can laugh now.
Which only leaves me with Republicans. This is another learning point for me. Because in conversation the term came up (and then came up again with the pastor) and immediately I went to American politics and just as immediately realized that that wasn't going to be right in this situation. So I asked. Quite like the name suggests, Republicans (as I understand it) are those who still wish N. Ireland to be a part of the Republic of Ireland as opposed to unionists (with a little 'u'), who prefer to stay with the United Kingdom. I'm told that, yes, there is somewhat firm correlation between the political designations and religion, but that it would not be wise to assume that all Protestants are unionists and all Catholics are Republicans, as they are not. It is an interesting cultural-political situation and one that I hope to be able to learn more about while I'm here. It's also a good reminder of the way that the meaning of words and labels change with different cultural contexts. I take it for granted and I shouldn't.
New pics: the Antrim Coast
Peace!
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